


Sickday

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Jim had hrm-hrm with an alien and now that’s all he wants.





	Sickday

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Generally speaking, humans haven’t practiced widespread religion in over a century, but now it’s come back with a vengeance. Hell is reborn, and it’s James Kirk’s dormitory at Starfleet Academy. For the moment, it’s _only_ his dormitory, because his poor roommate has been safely relocated to... somewhere else. Jim wasn’t fully listening when they explained. He _can’t_ quite listen anymore. A particularly old, rotund professor came in to explain it to him, but all he could think about is getting ploughed roughly into the mattress. Which is odd, because Jim usually prefers to top. And he also has the ability to shut his hormones off when it comes to school—he might be a romantic creature in his own time, but he’s dead serious about his dreams. He’s going to be a starship captain. He’s going to do it faster than anyone else ever has. Assuming, of course, he stops drowning in the sort of feverish pools of lust he couldn’t even conceive of in his filthiest wet dreams.

He’s going mad. He’s been assured that he’s not, both by a friend in the medical program and the Academy’s best doctors, but he’s also sure they’re wrong. They’ve given him tablets to take, which sit on his bedside table, half-empty and still not helping. He’s got the curtains drawn, the lights turned off. His computer was playing soothing instrumentals that weren’t actually calming him down at all, but the unit’s shut itself down from inactivity. Jim can’t seem to make it out of bed to turn it on again. It’s a wonder he can make it to the washroom and Synthesizer when he needs to. Bones keeps saying he can come over to help, but that’s the last thing Jim needs.

Spock offered too, but that’s even worse, and not just because he knows Spock judges him for getting into this mess in the first place. He doesn’t know if Spock’s supposed to be an omega or an alpha, just that Spock’s hotter than Vulcan’s sun. Jim’s always thought that. He can still vividly remember the first time he bumped into the quiet, secluded, alien pseudo-supermodel two years ahead of him. In his current haze, he can’t quite remember how they ever became friends—they’re so very different, even if now he knows how well they work together. But they _did_ click, and now they fit so perfectly that Jim just _knows_ they’ll end up on the same ship, out in the stars together. Maybe Spock will even be his first officer, and when they’re off duty, Jim could order Spock into the captain’s quarters, push him down onto his knees, have him open his pretty mouth and—

Jim cuts himself off with a languid groan. He yells at his own mind to _stop it_. He was always attracted to Spock, always _liked_ him, increasingly so, but that’s no excuse. Jim knows he has to stop. He still wants them to be friends after this. He wants to be able to look Spock in the eye without feeling guilty for a hundred and one dirty daydreams. 

He physically flinches when the door chime rings. He doesn’t answer it. His condition’s not contagious—not outside of copulation with certain species, anyway—but his door should still be marked ‘quarantine.’ He waits for his communicator to go off on his desk, but instead, the door just opens.

Jim lifts up in bed enough to peer over. But his elbows are shaking and he inevitably collapses. He feels like he’s entered a mirage in the desert, even though his visitor’s not that unexpected. Ever since they met, they’ve been practically inseparable. 

Sure enough, Spock walks straight for the bed. Undeterred by Jim’s condition, his steps never falter, his posture perfect as usual. The door whooshes shut behind him, automatically locking again—only Jim, his misplaced roommate, Bones, Spock, and the professors know the code. Spock holds a data pad, but he sets it on the nightstand when he reaches Jim. Anyone else would pull up a chair, but they’re close enough now that Spock simply perches on the edge of the mattress. Less than an arm’s length away, his presence burns into Jim. 

Jim can _sense_ him. Jim can smell the crisp, rich scent of Spock’s shampoo and the earthy undertones of his body. Jim’s pupils dilate, eyes raking over every detail, from the neatly cut grey hems of Spock’s uniform to the rigidly straight strands of his black hair. There’s a subtle, slight tinge of green to the tips of his pointed ears, a shallow blue dusted above his eyes. Jim’s sure that no one sees Spock as thoroughly as he does. He can hear the almost imperceptible pattern of Spock’s breath, and he can feel the heat of Spock’s body. He’s sure he looks like a wild animal, staring up at Spock in hungry awe, and Spock frowns back down at him.

Their peers think Spock’s cold. Jim knows that—even Bones teases him for it. But Jim can see the concern in Spock’s dark eyes. He can hear the ever-so-slight note of worry when Spock asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” Jim lies, because he can’t seem to stop minimizing his problems, even when they’re killing him. Spock lifts a slanted brow, and Jim corrects, “Or as peachy as anyone with ABO syndrome would be.”

“As far as I am aware,” Spock notes, “you are the first Terran to be diagnosed as such.”

“Lucky me,” Jim laughs. The motion hurts his parched throat, and he licks his lips, but he doesn’t reach for the jug of water on the nightstand. That’s not what he’s thirsty for. He forces himself to say more, to keep it amiable, to not just _stare_ at Spock in gnawing hunger. “Bones is never gonna let me hear the end of it. He thinks that’s what I get for sleeping with a Mrennenimian, but he totally would’ve too, if that other girl had given him the time of day.”

Despite their bond, Spock doesn’t side with him. Spock predictably scolds him, “It is generally unwise to engage in intimate acts with such disparate species.” Which hurts more than usual, because _Spock’s_ half ‘disparate species,’ and Jim would like to think that doesn’t make them _so_ impossible.

Groaning, he protests, “Well, if I’d known having an ‘alpha’ fuck me would make me a temporary ‘omega,’ I wouldn’t have done it in the first place! He should’ve told me that could happen! And then when it did, he got all surprised, only to shrug it off and tell me ‘Terrans must be an omega-species.’ Can you believe it? Like... he just cast that on the whole race!”

“I am not knowledgeable enough in either alpha or omega designations to ‘believe’ or disbelieve such a claim. Though, I admit I do not understand your dismay over one or the other. Are omegas considered inferior?”

Jim has no idea, but: “I feel like it. I’m going _crazy_.” He belatedly realizes that his arm’s been sneaking closer to Spock, and he hurriedly shoves it back under the blankets, letting both hands fist in the sheets. He’s completely naked from head to toe, having sweat through all his clothes, but the blankets are halfway up his chest, and it’s not like Spock hasn’t seen him shirtless. He hasn’t seen Spock shirtless. He wants to. _Desperately_ wants to. His eyes are trailing down Spock’s body again, and he forces them back up to grumble, “I have to take a whole week off for this, you know. The doctors say they can’t safely inoculate me until my ‘heat’ is over. A whole week! How am I supposed to fast track my way to a ship if I have to skip classes? And the whole time’ll suck, because I’m stuck here alone!” And he irrationally feels like he would be better if only he had someone to fuck his brains out.

There’s a long moment’s pause where Spock just processes his complaints. Jim’s never heard Spock complain even once, but he politely tolerates Jim. He must know by now that it’s all justified—it takes _a lot_ to break Jim Kirk down. Finally, Spock tells him, “This is a very difficult case for the Academy. But... they have been most generous in their accommodations.”

Jim snorts. “If they were that generous, they’d give me a non-Mrennenimian alpha to spend my house-arrest with.”

Again, Spock’s silent. When he speaks again it’s so quite that Jim’s not sure he heard right.

“Apparently, Vulcans are considered an alpha-species.” 

Jim blinks, bewildered. He can’t fathom why Spock’s telling him that. Spock’s half human anyway: half-omega, half-alpha. Or maybe all alpha, because he _looks_ all Vulcan, and his heart beats at his side instead of his breast. 

The longer Jim looks at him, the darker Spock’s cheeks become, until they’re a conspicuous green—something most unusual for him. Without breaking eye contact, he plucks the data pad off the nightstand and hands it to Jim.

Dazed, Jim skims it. He has trouble with the broader details, but he understands the gist. Spock has a week off too. With him. If he wants it. They’ll both be regularly seen by a physician, but otherwise, Jim’s prescription is the same. Mostly.

Before, he was supposed to curl up in bed and jerk himself raw. Now, apparently, Spock can do that for him.

Spock clarifies, “This is, of course, only applicable if you wish to have me.”

“If I’d had you, I wouldn’t have slept with that guy in the first place.”

Spock’s quiet. Jim’s still reeling. It takes him a minute to manage, “Do you... Spock, do you _want_ to stay with me?”

Spock doesn’t explain his feelings. Jim doesn’t expect him to. That’s part of what makes their connection so magnificent—they just _understand_ one another. Or at least, Jim thought they did. But Spock nods, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Jim wonder if this is what he wanted all along.

Not the heat-fever, of course. Just them lying together. The two of them spending their first week dating locked up in a Starfleet sanctioned sex-a-thon is more Jim’s speed than Spock’s. 

But he’ll happily take it. He tosses the data pad aside, ignores the sound of it clattering across the floor, lunges up and catches Spock by the shoulders. Then his mouth’s full of Vulcan tongue, and he’s pulling Spock right back down with him. 

Spock proves to be as vigorous a lover as friend, and Jim’s in heaven in no time.


End file.
